tactile, tangible - and tunics

It started with an ache in my heart.

Something to do with being more real, more me, and feeling and tasting the real world. It continued with mental images of a woman wandering the streets and living intensely. I read a story. And I started to wander the streets and making my fantasies real - with limited success, I must admit, but just the fact that I started to dream again was a mind-boggling step.

My fascination with clothes, and looks, was a help. It's been decades since the first time I looked at a piece of clothing in a shop and saw a whole new life, a much more exciting personality - saw the fantastic woman I might become. But now I started to choose my outfits with even more care, started to feel the texture of the wool in my sleeve and the denim against my knee. I painted my eyes dark and felt exotic.

My change was sealed when I found myself in a new environment. Faced with the terror, very real and far away from my useless dream worlds, of learning a new job among complete strangers who expected me to prove myself useful, I desperately turned to my fantasy world of beautiful, fictional people for inspiration. I forced myself to go against my fearful instinct to blend in. I put on shorter skirts and higher heels and looked people in the eye with a smile. If a fictional character could look gorgeous and get the job done and even slay some dragons in the process, then so could I. No matter that my job, at least in the beginning, involved less dragons and more yawning and watching the clock. Being scared and bored was a challenge that required heroism too, in my opinion. My red tunics and my pretty bracelets were my armour.

Time slowed, that winter-spring when I sat at a desk or cleared out stuff in the storage room, having too much time to think and feel. So I felt my muscles move in my body and watched my polished nails tap on the keyboard. I saw the afternoon light fade outside the window and heard faint music from the radio in the next room. I stroked with fascination the fur sample pieces I was supposed to archive. I listened intentely to everything that was said in the office, even when it was not addressed to me, even when my coworkers were just discussing what they had had for lunch. And I watched how they moved, where they parked their cars, what they wore. I wanted to learn everything about them, besides learning about the job itself - because it was the key to survival.

Dyed fur - from animals who died for you. I don't have to like it in order to like the feel of it.

I did survive, at least the first few months. I still withdraw into my dream world all too often. But now, I see more. I see weeds growing out of the asphalt when I walk the streets. I hear faraway trains. I know more about people than they think I do. I know that you can survive terror or boredom by wearing a red tunic and pretend that there are dragons to slay ( there usually are, in some form ).

And I sometimes have to stop myself from staring at people, or beautiful things. Stop myself from touching them in awe. Because I know there is so much to experience, see, feel, even in a seemingly boring world. Especially in a boring world.

Reach out and touch it.